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There are three primary gifts that have helped me maintain a sense of peace and find joy in life, even with my beloved older daughter gone – the practice of staying in the present, made possible in part through The Work of Byron Katie; my deep faith in the divine and the consciousness that continues when we leave our bodies; and being in service to others with gratitude.

Staying Present

There were so many times during the two months when Elizabeth was in hospice, when my mind would go to “this shouldn’t be happening”… Yet she never did that. She didn’t try to be anywhere other than where she was. She was in a state of grace.

I, however, was not. I would notice that I wasn’t actually with her, even though she was still in front of me, because of what I was thinking. So as soon as I caught myself, The Work would go like this. I’d have this thought: “she shouldn’t be dying, she is only 22!” I’d ask myself “is that true?” and if I said yes, I’d then ask “can I absolutely know that is true?” And the answer was always no, I couldn’t know that she shouldn’t be dying. That would always begin to shift things…

There are more steps to The Work, (www.thework.com) but the practice is one of bringing myself back to the present, noticing that it’s only my story about the past or the future that is creating my suffering. When I am in the present moment, I am always ok. Maybe incredibly sad, maybe sobbing on the floor, but as the emotion moves through and I’m present with it, without a story, I can allow it to be fully expressed without judgment or holding back, and I am ok. I am at peace.

Faith and Divine Presence

I’m grateful that for years I’ve been using The Work for myself and my clients, as it helps immensely. I also have been a Reiki Master since 2001, and this channeling of healing energy, with my work as an intuitive guide has kept me in deep connection with the Divine presence. Using Reiki on myself and others helps me literally feel the Divine with me. It has also helped to soothe and quiet my mind and feel balanced and clear, physically, mentally and emotionally.

In my work I receive messages from those in spirit. These have been validated as accurate by their loved ones so many times that I trust they are real. It brings me great comfort to know that there is a consciousness, a soul that continues to exist when we leave our body. So after Elizabeth died, I was worried initially about her being happy, the same way I’d been all her life! I’ve since heard over and over from Elizabeth, including in several readings with mediums, that she is happy, that she is doing wonderful work where she is – more than she could have done while in her body, that she is exactly where she is supposed to be and where she wants to be.

I have many stories of Elizabeth showing herself to me when I’ve needed confirmation from her that she is around. One of the most remarkable was soon after she died, and I was missing her terribly. I was floating in the ocean, looking at the sky, which was filled with puffy round clouds. I asked her to show me that she was present and immediately the clouds shifted to form a huge letter E in the sky above me!

Another way she lets me feel her presence is through music. When I am alone in the mornings, especially in the months after she died, I play Pandora on shuffle, with about 20 stations selected. This means there are many thousands of possibilities of songs that could play. On mornings when I desperately wanted to know her spirit was close, I’d ask her to show herself. Each time I made this request, the next song that came on was one of a handful of songs that she and I both loved, that had particular meaning to both of us, and that did not play any other time than those times I asked. It brought me to my knees in tears each time – simply overwhelmed with emotion and in gratitude.

Service and Gratitude

The third aspect that I’ve found essential to having a life of peace and joy, is being in service and feeling gratitude. I was able to take time off work during the time Elizabeth was in hospice, and slowly started seeing clients again in the months following her death. I am so blessed that I love my work, and that it is nourishing to me, while I’m supporting others in their healing. I have always worked with people during times of great transformation, and now especially, those dealing with grief and loss of all kinds find their way to me.

I have found writing, this blog in particular, to be immensely helpful. It has served as a way of processing my experience and emotions and having a forum to share Elizabeth and her writing. It’s also connected me to an online community, through other bloggers and Facebook, that has brought so much support, love and nourishment. The more vulnerable and authentic I am, the more authentic the connections and friendships I have received. It has felt like an offering, something coming through me that serves me and hopefully many others.

I find that four and a half years later, I still need more time alone than ever before. I need time to just be, to meditate, to connect, to listen, to not answer to anyone…and I need to balance that with living a life of purpose, doing the work I came here to do. I feel Elizabeth with me, joining me in serving others, and I believe that living my life as fully and joyfully as possible is the best way I can honor Elizabeth’s life and death. I take care of myself in every way I know how, and remember how blessed I am. I do my best to focus on the gifts in my life – 22 years of having Elizabeth as my living daughter and the rest of my life with her as a spiritual companion; another amazing daughter, Julianna, now almost 24, very happily living and working in New York; a home on Maui and a thriving practice with clients all over the world; and a marriage to my partner of 15 years that supports me in so many ways.

As this 4 year anniversary of my daughter Elizabeth’s death was approaching, I could feel the shimmering of grief in and around everything. I’ve been getting better and better at learning how to take care of myself, and I realized a few days ago that doing a ritual for Elizabeth with flowers and ashes on Haleakala would bring me some peace.

The past couple of years I’ve been with my mom and sister and good friend (Elizabeth’s godmother), and it was hard to be far away from each of them and my partner. Talking and texting with them helped, as did the many messages I received from family and friends throughout the day – I love knowing that others are thinking of Elizabeth, missing her, remembering her, honoring her…

I started the day moving slowly, putting on clothes I think Elizabeth would have liked (a dress! she always wanted me to wear dresses…), earrings of hers made of butterfly wings, a pearl necklace she made for me…And then bought and ate food I thought she’d have liked, enjoying these embodied pleasures for and with her.

I had envisioned driving up the nearby mountain, Haleakala, as I know she loved being on Mt Lemmon in Tucson, and this feels very similar. One of the things Elizabeth had really wanted after she was diagnosed with cancer was to come back to spend time in Hawaii, which she didn’t get to do. Her ashes hadn’t been placed anywhere here yet, so today felt like the right time.

As I opened the basket on the altar that holds her ashes, and scooped some into a blue jar, I felt something hard and metallic. I reached in and found a dime! I remember placing a few things with her to be cremated, like flowers, her tattered baby blanket and bunny, but don’t remember any of us putting money in with her…Perhaps someone who was there will remind me, or perhaps it was John, our dear friend who died of cancer a few months ago. I seem to hear him laughing now…

I waited until close to sunset and began my drive up the mountain, quickly enveloped in fog that became clouds. I love driving into the mist and seeing the world transform into another realm…I could feel her with me, listening and watching as she showed me how she can be with each of the people she loves, all at the same time. She showed me again that she helps people as they’re making their transition, especially when they’re young and when they are in shock and unprepared, that she acts as a guide of sorts. Still with her same kindness and also lack of patience or bullshit. Being very real and direct about where they are and what is happening.

I drove without knowing where I would stop to place her ashes and the beautiful lei made of tuberose and small pink roses, one of her favorite flowers. I asked her for guidance and also a sign that she was with me. Immediately I saw a gorgeous pheasant, and ended up seeing a total of four of these gorgeous birds on the mountain.

After driving only a half hour, I was above the clouds and the light was incredible as the sun was close to setting. I was led to a place to pull over and found an easy path through the grass and then a beautiful rock. I placed the lei around the rock and spread some of her ashes in a circle around and on top of the rock. I spent a while meditating and taking photographs, feeling grateful for the peace I felt, the extraordinary beauty around me . I kept thinking I needed to leave, but realizing I had no where to go. Being present, appreciating this peace and beauty was where I needed to be.

Today, January 12, is Elizabeth’s birthday. She would be 26 today, if she were alive. Funny how our aging ends, and yet those who are left behind keep track, as if age and years were real. Yesterday I cried, all day. Relieved actually, as it felt like months of tears being released.

My mind wondered why this birthday feels especially potent, especially heart breaking…what is it about 26? Today I realized – I was 26 when Elizabeth was born, 26 years ago. She doesn’t have this opportunity, the huge blessing of having children, and I am missing out on any grandchildren I might have had. When I was 26, I had been waiting years – my whole life it felt like, to have her, my first daughter. I’d always envisioned two daughters and couldn’t wait to get started. Though my vision has served well in seeing much of my future, it didn’t allow this to be seen. I hadn’t been shown this profoundly different reality, being in relationship with one in body and one in spirit.

Today, while talking about Elizabeth with my friend, her godmother Victoria, music started playing in my office. I walked in and the computer had woken up and started playing songs on iTunes, which I didn’t even have open. This has never happened before, and at first I was confused and ignored it, thinking somehow the music I’d been playing on my phone had transferred to the computer… but then realized that’s not possible. When I walked in to see what was playing, it was “Let’s Talk About Sex” by Salt n Pepa, that I’d taken from E’s most-played songs in her iTunes when putting together a playlist for the memorial service. One of her favorites, and I had to dance…

Elizabeth has often sent me messages through music, and the “random” playlist today has been amazing:

“Let’s Talk About Sex” – Salt n Pepa, a favorite of hers

“Earth Kisses Sky” from the album Sky Kisses Earth (Prem Joshua) – the title says it all, yes?

“Son of a Preacher Man” – one of my favorite songs

whale songs – E loved animals deeply, and especially whales

“Flesh and Blood” by Johnny Cash, who she loved

“Let the Wind Carry Me” by Joni Mitchell

Brugh Joy recording from a conference I attended. He was a masterful teacher I was blessed to study with for many years, and Elizabeth had hoped to attend one of his conferences, but he died before she was old enough. This captured him talking about being a screen, as a teacher, knowing when others are projecting onto you, as a way for something deep to arise to consciousness. And then how important it is to notice “what wants to happen rather than what we think should be happening”…

“The End” by Green Day – must be from E’s computer also, and fitting as I am finishing this post!

Fascinating to me, and feels like she’s clearly here with me as I’m writing today.

Yesterday I was trying to come up with something I could do today to honor Elizabeth, a gift for her, and after a few vague ideas realized I should ask her. While in meditation I felt her touch – I was told by a medium that she touches me on my hair, and I very occasionally will feel this touch and know it’s her. I then saw very clearly selecting and sharing a few of my favorite poems of hers. I know this is something that would make her happy, and though they’re ones that are already on this site, they are buried on a page with many others. So, if you will bear with me, I’m creating a few posts, each featuring one of Elizabeth Blue’s poems.

For some reason I decided to log in to Elizabeth’s email account a few weeks ago, just to see if there was anything important there. I discovered she had folders that I’d not noticed before, and in one called “treasures” I found this beautiful birthday email she’d sent me, on my birthday, when she was 15. I had saved it, and was surprised to see she had too, among correspondence with special aunties, her sister and a couple others.

This is helpful for me to read when I occasionally let myself remember the very challenging times we had; the times when Elizabeth felt I’d betrayed her; the times she wanted more than I could give; the times she was hostile and rude to me and my partner, the times I was not the mother I’d hoped to be, wanted to be…

I hope it may be helpful for those of you who have teenagers, or who have lost your beloved child without the chance to hear or read these words, as I believe all our children feel this about their mothers, at some moments in time. I’m grateful she had the chance to put this into words at such a young age.

12/24/2005

Hello Mom,
I hope you are having a wonderful birthday. I have
arrived in San Diego but so far have no luck reaching
you by phone, so I am trying email.
Thank you for being born, for your soul coming in and
giving birth to my body, I think you are such a
wonderful Mother and such a wonderful human being.
Even if you weren’t my own personal Mom I would be so
lucky to be on this Earth at the same time as you!

You have taught me so much about being a woman, being
feminine and holding such great love for that. You
have expressed so wonderfully to me deep mothering
beauty from the time you sang me songs as you held me,
to your belief that any kindergarden who didn’t take
me was suffering a loss, to standing with me and
trying to hold me as I yelled how I hated you and what
you were doing, to forcing me to go to public school
because you were following your intution, to saying
prayers to keep Brieana and me safe as we lived our
daring little lives, to saying yes to (visiting) Palenque and
allowing me to go and have one of the most decadently
amazing times of my life, to holding my hand as I
cried for a home I had left behind, to trusting my
judgement now and loving me. I feel like from the
time you sang me songs, gave me life and breathed into
me your love, to all the journeys we have walked
together on this path we call life,
you have been my
constant source, an inspiration and probably the
greatest love of a daughter’s life.

Thank you for being, thank you for loving, thank you
for being born and thank you for my birth.
Thank you.
I love you

The photos I intended did not make it the first time, so I’m doing this again!

I’m not inspired to write much today, but want to share a beautiful day of remembering, celebrating and loving Elizabeth. My mom, sister, dear friend Victoria (Elizabeth’s godmother) and I gathered with food and drink and created altars and played on the beach.

I am slowly going through Elizabeth’s writing, wanting to share more here, as I know she wanted to share her work with the world. It’s a way for me to know that she was real, that she existed, to keep her spirit fed and nurtured, though it’s also painful for me. This one she wrote for a Kino High School assignment, a “reflective essay”. She wrote about her grandmother, my mother. They were very close and she was one of the few people who Elizabeth trusted and relied on for support. She was 16 when she wrote this, always insightful and thoughtful, and in a phase of irritation with most of the adults in her life, including her grandmother…

Three Years Later

by Elizabeth (Meagher) Blue

2006

“I did not go back to work until three years later.”

She looks across the table at me, starkly, her eyes lock mine. It is as if she is trying to communicate something bigger to me than language can possess.

Needingly, my eyes grab hers, searching, almost pulling, trying to lock her into some journey I am set on undertaking. I am searching, trying to find the time and space between the words, between the stories. The time and the space between the work and the cooking and the raising the children and the caring for the husband and the surviving, I am trying to see what the time and space between the hours were like and I guess I am trying to lift the veils, trying to see what life was like for her.

Our eyes locked across the table as people around us talk and eat — I think how we are trying to find each other. The genetic thread through which we are somehow linked, I think we are trying to know each other and communicate a feeling of tribal humanity. To know a connection deeper, more substantional than words, something we can feel, as all I feel now is the cold scraping of metal chairs as we slide back and forth gesturing to each other through our posture. Perhaps if we gesture enough we might accumulate at least a sense of knowing one another’s bodies.

Julianna, Jane/Grandma, Elizabeth, NY, 2011

Mother of my Mother, womb of my womb and we are trying to see each other as people. Unconditionally, what we are trying to recognize is a bond of love and the connections we associate with it. I am trying to see how her love is my love, her flesh is my flesh, her life is my life, that I am her and she is me. I am trying to see emotion and connection stronger than a cut umbilical cord.

This is my Grandmother and for perhaps the first time I am trying to see her as a person as she tells me how my Grandfather, the love of her life, entered university at junior year at the age of 15. I am trying to see her when I ask, “Why did you love him?”

She laughs.

“I really don’t know.” She is sweeping crumbs from the table with her hand into a neat little pile. “Why does anybody fall in love?” She laughs again. “I don’t know if I had ever been in love before. I had an older boyfriend before him, when I was in high school and he was in college. He was a very passionate man, in the end however he turned out to be much too childish. But Bobby, your Grandfather, I just fell in love with him.” She gazes out a window thoughtfully and I note that this may be the softest I’ve ever seen her. She did really love him, and there was not question.

“He was very smart,” I prompt her wanting to know more than how smart he was. I want to know things like how did he feel when you rested against him under his arm? How did he take his tea, with milk like you? with sugar? Both? Neither like me? Did he read the paper everyday? What did he sound like when he laughed? What kind of people did he like best? How would he have loved me? I don’t want to know how smart he was, I want to know about his humanity. I want to know him as a person, as I want to learn about her as a person, maybe I want to learn her enough for the both of them. I want a Grandfather with stories of youth grown old. I don’t want to hear how smart he was.

“Oh yes very smart. Probably the smartest person I have ever met.” She ticks off his on-paper accomplishments, “University of Chicago, graduated in two years with honors. He was on the tennis, football and riflery teams. After he wanted to go to law school but no one would take him because he was so young, so he went to Dartmouth for a masters in business instead. After that he wanted to become a lawyer still so he went to Harvard and graduated top of his class.”

I look her in the eye, nodding, not wanting to miss a beat. I wonder what she is trying to communicate by repeating all this information I already know, and I think it has something to do with legacy.

Jane/Grandma and Elizabeth Blue, Sedona, 1/12

Somewhere between the years I know they met in Italy when they both spent a summer abroad, somewhere between the years my Grandmother fell in love for perhaps the first time. Somewhere between the years she became a wife and he became a husband, somewhere between the years he became a lawyer, she became a college graduate and took a job working under the head of the African studies department at Boston University. Somewhere between the years my mother’s life began and somewhere between the years his illness became much worse.

Sitting here looking at my Grandmother, with her, I eat my chocolate cake and she finishes her salad and I observe how different we are.

She possesses a certain quickness to her small body, at 67 she does not look her age and prides herself on getting carded for a senior discount. She is, as usual, dressed in black with perhaps a bit of gray trim showing for her socks or sweater. This constant state of dress makes me wonder if she ever truly stopped mourning my Grandfather. Her hair, short and silver gray, clings close to her head. Her eyes are green gray hazel and narrow when confused or pretending to be. (I have learned to look away when she does this or find myself babbling to try to answer an unspoken question which she can always back out of.)

She is always doing something — a quality I find increasingly annoying as we spend more and more time together. Though over time I realize that it is not so much this constant need to do something which bothers me, as much as her constant need to try to make me be always doing something. This nagging at the back of my mind which she vocalized telling me that I am unworthy of rest, that there is always more to do, more to see and not constantly doing or seeing such things equates laziness. A most abominishal quality.

She reminds me of the quick short black lines she loves in art so — quick, definite, to the point. Always suggesting movement. Never resting for a minute’s peace of ‘look where we are, how wonderful, how glorious, how blessed we are to experience this!’ But constantly wanting to see what is just around the corner of a bendy pass. (I begin to wonder if this is not a defense technique always wanting to see what might be coming.) After a while I find it intolerable to walk or do almost anything with her.

If when I think of her I think of quick, sharp, black, lines, when I think of myself I think of drapery, of rich soft velvety antique sofas. Of meandering circles, or pearls hanging from ivory carved light fixtures. I think of green fields and white lace dresses under the shade of willow trees having tea parties on bone china with scones and biscuits, soft butter and sweet jam. I think of a soft buddha, monks in red dress bowing to a deity 30 times their size. And I don’t know how to relate to her lines of movement.

This is why I am trying to see the connection through love. Trying to see how we are both human, both women, both feel.

I try to imagine what it was like for her when he died. All I’ve ever heard her say specifically was overwhelming. He left her with my mother at age three and the second baby which she so desperately felt she needed — my aunt, not yet walking. I try to imagine and try to imagine and yet what repeats in my head is, “I didn’t go back to work until three years later.” This woman who is constant lines of movement to me was unable to go out in the world doing and seeing things until three years later. Her passion for life was put to rest alongside grief for my Grandfathers death. She gave herself over to the wolves, to the children, to the taking care of the remains of a life so hopefully started. She of quick lines gave over — sacrificed — her womanhood, her interests, her movement to live to stay alive and to survive. And I wonder, if perhaps this is not the legacy she has meant to pass on. Whisper in the wind, “I did not go back to work until three years later, but you, young one, can.”

Elizabeth and Jane/Grandma, Tucson, during her recurrence of lymphoma, 7/12

This week, I am crying at every little thing. Even sitting down to write a blog post makes me teary, and there’s nothing I’m particularly sad about in this moment.

This week I am staying up late watching full seasons of shows I like, family dramas especially, and sobbing through them. So much emotion – from marriages, to deaths, to new babies…and of course the scenes with the mother and her 20-something daughter having her first baby just put me right over the top…

This week I just want to stay in bed all morning reading Facebook updates on my phone, laughing and crying at silly videos and other people’s lives.

This week I want to eat chocolate for breakfast. And lunch and dinner. (Though I did make a great lentil soup last night to supplement the chocolate.)

This week I am angry at Elizabeth for dying. I am still stunned. Shocked that she left. Shocked that this fierce, stubborn hard-headed young woman, stronger-willed than I her whole life, could be gone. Taken down by something that wasn’t supposed to kill her. All kinds of people survive cancer. How did she not?

This week I rediscover Elizabeth’s Tumbler “Freshly Shaved Legs”, and smile at her posts the last months of her life – about fashion, music, deep thoughts, love, worries about her phone not working and being out of communication (little did we know she’d be communicating in a whole new way so soon…). I forget how funny she was, in her sly, kittenish way. I admire her writing style, wish I could emulate her, and know that she is unique.

Elizabeth Blue, ~2010

This week I reread some of Rachel Remen’s book “Kitchen Table Wisdom”, which I loved when I read it years ago. One story is of a man who had survived cancer, and reading it this time, it seems she believes he survived only because he was able to move through and heal some deep emotional woundings. As Elizabeth’s mother, I feel responsible for ALL her emotional woundings (which I know intellectually isn’t true), and feel myself sink into self-blame.

This week I delight in the yard being cleaned and feeling brighter, more spacious, open; in adding a pump to my little pond so I hear running water from my bed when I wake up in the morning; in a basket full of oranges I picked from our backyard.

This week I cry tears of love and my heart opens as Zelie listens to her inner calling and attends a voice workshop for 10 days, being challenged and loved and supported in her soul’s work.

This week I listen to Julianna with pride and deep love as she prepares to graduate college and move out into the world at large, making her way with such grace, determination, focus and wisdom.

This week I despair at how little I’ve been writing, and feel my heart crack open when I discuss taking a writing workshop, and how I feel called to write a book about Elizabeth’s life and death and our journey together.

This week I feel the full-body Yes to this call, and know it’s not in my timing, any more than the timing of this post today, this week.